


there's no place in between for us to meet

by machogwapito



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, stupid stupid stupidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:16:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machogwapito/pseuds/machogwapito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the name Sullivan is associated with a notorious gang, Samuel could've had anyone he wanted the moment he was sent to prison. The thing is, he never asked for anyone—not until a floppy-haired kid with dreams stepped into the yard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's no place in between for us to meet

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed as per usual. All mistakes are my own. I'm sorry for the lameness of this.
> 
> Thanks for believing in me, Libby.

The first thing Samuel thinks to himself is this: the new kid has floppy hair and downcast eyes and he is, for lack of a better description, on the precipice of handsome—but not quite past the juvenile definition of adorable. The second thing he thinks is that he’s not _supposed_ to care, but it’s quickly overrun by his third thought, which is the fact that the kid is looking at him and blinking because Samuel’s been staring.

His staring isn’t really a new thing; oftentimes Samuel steals glances at everything and everyone in here, if only because he needs to know what he’s dealing with to make strategies in case of a riot. Him being caught staring isn’t really a new thing, either. It’s as the kid shuffles onward with the rest of the new inmates that it finally hits him. What’s different is that the kid _smiled_ at him, albeit nervously, and the thought of that makes heat prickle on the back of Samuel’s neck. Or maybe what makes it prickle is that Samuel very nearly convinces himself that if he’d realized it sooner, he would’ve smiled back.

The kid’s sleeves hang off his arms and only briefly show his fingertips, and Samuel watches him go before finally turning to his brother, who’s been watching the happenings go on as well in that silent, intelligent way of his.

“I want that one, Joseph,” he says, pointing. Joseph has the good sense of mind to look vaguely surprised at what Samuel’s saying—the Sullivan brothers have always had power in this prison, having been locked up since they were both on the cusp of adulthood, but this is the first time Samuel’s ever shown interest in a newbie. Conceptually, he could’ve had anyone he wanted. In the past he’d entertained himself with the notion of owning a man with dark brows and a thick nose, or a Japanese one who’d had glasses and a stupid smile before leaving in less than a week due to wrong accusations. The only problem was that he never really wanted them bad enough to claim.

This one is different, though, he tells himself. This one with the floppy hair and the dreamy color in his brown eyes and the jumpsuit that hangs off of a lithe body—this one is more different than Samuel can properly define, and his blood goes cold at the idea of anyone else laying stake on him. There’s an irrational fear in him already of what might happen if he didn’t take the kid now, if he let the other inmates push him around and laugh in his face and corrupt him as they always do the new ones. It feels like a good opportunity wasted, even if it’s hypothetical. Samuel doesn’t like that very much, if at all.

Joseph’s eyes fall onto the kid right before he disappears around a corner with the rest of the new inmates, and after that they fall onto Samuel.

“The one with the hair?” he asks.

“Aye,” Samuel agrees.

It only takes a split-second for Joseph to nod his head in agreement, and from that moment on, the deal is settled.

* * *

They’re in the yard, and the kid is walking around near the fence with his hands in his pockets. Already Samuel can see the way everybody looks at him—the darkness in their eyes, the way their lips press together. The kid, Samuel’s finally decided, is pretty. That’s the word he was looking for. Of course, ‘pretty’ is only used in the prison definition of the term, and that only means that nobody really has to close their eyes hard to imagine they’re fucking a woman instead of another man. The kid has soft-looking lips and smooth hair; he has gentle eyes and a nice body. If Samuel hadn’t told Joseph to keep him off-limits the first day, he knows for a fact that this kid probably wouldn’t even be walking at this point in time.

It’s in the middle of the kid hesitating over whether he should sit on a bench or not that Samuel makes his way forward, his fingers lightly curled towards his palm as he walks with a light swagger. The kid recognizes him, but only briefly, and Samuel makes a big deal to show he’s his in the way he presses a light touch to his bicep. The kid looks like he has to resist the urge to flinch, but in typical newbie naiveté, he doesn’t step away. It’s a fatal apathy. Samuel’s lips curve into a smile.

“What’s your name, hm?” he asks, and the kid nearly opens his mouth before pressing his lips together and giving a shrug of his shoulders. He doesn’t reply, and Samuel cocks a brow up before his head tilts to the side. “You deaf, boy?” he continues, but he still doesn’t get any words in response. On the contrary, the kid’s feet sort of shuffle backwards. Samuel makes sure to take the step necessary for their proximity to be restored, however, and the kid ducks his head down.

Samuel doesn’t leave, and he hears a sigh before the boy finally lifts his head a tiny fraction, bangs covering his left eye. “They told me not to talk to you,” he finally mutters, but his voice is so low it takes all of Samuel’s hearing capacity and more to properly understand him.

“Who’s ‘they’?” Samuel asks with a snort.

“My lawyer. My brother.” He glances at Samuel, but despite what he’s saying, Samuel can see the question in his eyes— _should I trust him or not?_ —and how the answer leans a little towards the positive rather than the negative. “Said I shouldn’t talk to anyone in here.”

“If you talk to no-one,” Samuel begins, his hand lifting slightly, fingertips all joined on the pad of his thumb as he gestures, “you don’t get mates.” He allows himself to pause, then cocks his head to the side, eyes burning into the kid’s own. “You don’t get mates, you _and_ your dignity don’t survive.” And that statement seems to make its mark, because the kid’s eyes widen slightly and he frowns. It’s not what he expected. Samuel can see the gears of his head turning; the kid’s weighing his options, determining the pros and the cons. It’s a fundamental thing, really—the basic rule of survival revolving around man not being an island, and so on and so forth. Samuel’s a little shady looking, though, all things considered, but he at least showers every day.

The kid presses his lips together. “Everyone’s ignoring me, though.”

Samuel grins. “That’s because I told ‘em not to.”

It’s a simple statement. The kid doesn’t really get the full weight of it until both of Samuel’s hands fall onto his shoulders, and then it hits him like a freight train if the shock that appears on his face is any indication.

“You own…” the kid begins, his brows furrowing—there’s no doubt his lawyer didn’t prepare him for _this_. Samuel silences him with a finger to his lips, and his arm wraps around the boy’s shoulders to lead him away from the side of the bench.

To the kid’s credit, he doesn’t scream or kick or retaliate. Their steps fall in perfect sync, and the kid shakes his head like he can’t believe what’s happened to him. Samuel allows him this time of silent surprise for the rest of their exercise period, and when it’s time to return to the cell block, the kid turns to look at him and says one word: “Peter.”

Before they part ways, Samuel gives him a small pat on the back and a charming smile. “Good to meet you, Peter. I’m Samuel.”

They return to their cells, but Samuel keeps Peter in his sight for as long as he can.

* * *

Peter is his, now, no question about it, but that doesn’t mean Samuel didn’t have to prove it.

Joseph, everyone knows, is not to be trifled with. He has the whole cold, calculating thing down to a T what with how quiet and menacing he looks standing with his hand on his hip and his lips pulled _just_ so to form a small frown. Samuel, on the other hand, is fair game to most. His swagger and his grins and his easy smiles makes it so simple for people to walk in on what’s his, because Samuel Sullivan isn’t half as terrifying as Joseph Sullivan is. In the past couple of weeks, Samuel’s had four different fights and one that ended with him pushing the man with the eyebrows’ face against a chain link fence. Joseph’s never really seen his brother mad—on that note, _nobody_ ’s really seen Samuel mad—but even in the smoothness of his steps, it’s the fury that has his brows knit together that makes people think of the earth trembling beneath Samuel’s feet.

He’d ended up kicking Eyebrows in the head, his elbows bent the slightest bit and his hands in the air, before bending down to hiss a ‘stay away’. It happened in the exercise yard; the publicity, Samuel hoped, would be more in his favor than against it. At the very least, the exposure is a clear demonstration of the fact that he owns Peter Petrelli, and nobody gets to touch what’s his.

Peter looks only vaguely shaken by it. Taking the fact that it was _his_ ass that had started the whole shenanigan with Eyebrows in the first place, Samuel doesn’t blame him. From his jumpsuit he procures a wrapped Mentos candy, and Samuel offers it to Peter with a raised brow and nothing more. With a hand that shakes—more out of the fact that Samuel’s gotten into a fight because of _him_ again rather than because he’s afraid of Samuel himself—Peter takes it and unwraps the candy, slipping it past his lips. Samuel learned early on that Peter appreciates menthol candies. It isn’t even Christmas yet, but Samuel’s already thinking of ways to sneak in peppermint candy canes.

They’ve known each other well over a month now, and Samuel can genuinely say that Peter’s a smart kid. He knows when to stick around and he knows when to run, but more important than all of that, he knows when to listen. Peter, Samuel believes, is best when he’s quiet and thinking. When he thinks, his eyes soften and his lips are agape only to show the smallest sliver of front teeth. When he thinks, his expressions change, and Samuel genuinely believes that the only time Peter doesn’t try to conceal his emotions is when he’s left alone in his head. Peter’s told him about Nathan—apparently when he said lawyer and brother the first day they spoke, he meant that his lawyer _was_ his brother—and Samuel’s told Peter about… well, that he liked strawberry milkshakes, but everyone knows Joseph Sullivan, anyway. Peter loves Nathan very much; Samuel sees it in the way the corners of his mouth pull up when he talks about the guy, in the way Peter runs his fingers through hair that’s getting long enough to tie into a ponytail, and in the way he laughs when he thinks of a memory that makes him happy. And, though he knows better than to wax poetic and to dream of clichéd novelistic romance, Samuel has the tiniest, weirdest hope that one day Peter could talk about _him_ like that, too.

The kid’s earnest as hell. He always gets two cups of lemonade in the cafeteria, always thinks of Samuel even when he knows perfectly well that Samuel can take care of himself. The real secret is that Samuel simply, _genuinely_ enjoys Peter’s company. For all the things that ‘owning’ means in a prison, Samuel could care less about them.

It’s not that he’s never thought about it. Peter’s handsome, and he’s got quite the attractive lines with which to cut a body from. His voice sounds like melted chocolate could talk. He has hands with fingers that people dream of.

Samuel’s just far too content with what they have now, where they can sit together with their shoulders occasionally brushing and Peter sucking on a piece of menthol candy in his mouth. He’s happy (and is that the right word to even use, here?) knowing that Peter’s beside him, that Peter’s safe. And he’s happy when Peter blinks and slides off the bench and bends down to pluck something up from the ground.

He stands again with his hands cupping the object, and with the delicate way he holds it, it seems like it’s something precious and priceless and worth all the money in the world.

He offers Samuel a four-leaf clover.

“For the candy,” Peter says, smiling sheepishly, his lips pressing together. “And everything else, I guess.”

Something corny and stupid bubbles up in Samuel’s throat about how Peter’s all the good luck he needs, but he only motions for Peter to sit again, keeping the clover in his pocket.

* * *

Samuel’s always assumed Peter’s in here because of a mistake—that he’s here because he was found guilty of a crime he didn’t commit. In fact, he’s been so convinced of it that he’s never actually consciously made an effort to think about it, like how he doesn’t notice he’s breathing until someone cuts off his air supply. So suffice to say, he’s surprised when Peter finally tells him the story.

“You’re—you took a _car_?” Samuel’s voice hooks on disbelief and latches there for an indefinite amount of time, his hand raised and his fingers curled. The side of his index finger touches his top lip, and Peter grins as he rubs the back of his neck and ducks his head.

“Well, yeah,” he says with a laugh, like the noise makes a difference. “My ma wanted to steal socks again—she’s been doing this for ages, you know?—so I asked if she wanted to steal a car instead, since it’s more exciting. She told me I couldn’t. So I showed her.”

The Petrellis are a weird bunch, Samuel decides, and he furrows his brows as he lets the information sink in. The entire time he’d believed Peter to be wrongly accused, but here he is telling him he stole a car and sounding proud of it. Generally speaking, stealing a car isn’t the worst thing a person can do. Joseph and Samuel are here for stealing, violence, and kidnapping. Holding them up against Peter’s crime, it looks like Peter’s only stolen a pen instead of a fast-going automobile.

“I mean, it was alright,” Peter finally adds, Samuel’s silence unnerving, but he makes sure to grin with confidence instead of looking nervous about it. “Wasn’t so hard.”

“But you got caught.”

“After driving it for, what, fifty miles?”

“ _Aye_ , Peter, you’re a real hazard to the world.”

Peter laughs again, but it’s not like the laugh he made when he confirmed his thievery. It’s a genuine sound, and he crosses his arms over his chest with a nod of his head. “I’m radioactive.”

“Very,” Samuel says, and then he snorts.

Peter’s smiling so big that Samuel’s questioning when the last time he’s had a friend to laugh with was. After that, the selfish part of him hopes that that means Peter’ll realize how much he needs Samuel around.

But only vaguely.

* * *

Peter’s gotten in the middle of some fight again, and this time one of Joseph’s right-hand men—Edgar—is the one who stepped in to stop it. In retrospect, Peter’s lucky: Edgar’s quick with his body and even quicker with a knife, so the man who attacked him (some Adam person or another) didn’t stand a chance. The joke is that Peter was half-naked when it happened, shoved into the shower and hissed at about how he didn’t help Adam break out, and _really_ , it’s pure fate that Edgar’d been puked on that afternoon, too. A second later and Peter would’ve been Adam’s. Samuel’s territory apparently isn’t as clearly put down as he initially assumed.

Nevertheless, Samuel had been doing yard work when the scuffle occurred, and suffice to say when he finally returns, Peter’s already been put in solitary confinement ‘for his own safety’. To his obvious displeasure, the new arrangements are meant to last for a week, and Samuel wastes no time frowning about it.

He knows it’s for the best—he’s a mature adult, Peter’s a fine piece of meat, being in solitary means he doesn’t have to worry about fights every other minute—but it doesn’t make things any better. For the week that Peter’s gone, Samuel’s restless, biting on his thumbnail and going up and down the benches like he’s pacing on stairs. He moves in whatever limited space he can, his hands shaking sometimes, his expression anything but cordial. He used to believe that he was above this: the lull of insanity that comes with too much time in a closed space. He knows better, now.

Samuel can’t really remember a time before Peter—what did he _do_? And it’s funny, really, because he and Peter never really did much. They didn’t talk a lot. They didn’t touch. They didn’t even fuck, and that’s what everyone assumes they’ve been doing. Peter had just _been_ there, and his being made the days far more bearable than Samuel can remember.

On one of these restless days, Joseph sits on the bench Samuel continuously steps on and off from, not looking at him as he watches the rest of the yard amble about.

“When he gets out, you’re cutting him off,” Joseph says. The speed at which Samuel turns to look at him is almost inhuman, and his gaze narrows in thinly veiled frustration.

“I’m _sorry_?”

“He’s not worth the trouble.”

“He’s worth gold.”

Joseph finally turns his head, then, looking at Samuel with an expression that can only describe the same quiet disbelief as the one he showed when Peter first walked in. Samuel doesn’t talk back to Joseph—at least, not in the very serious way that he does in this moment. They’ve had each other’s backs for years, and he trusts him. But today is different, and this situation is different, and the fact that Samuel’s voice is more quiet and serious than pissed and loud (as its tendency to be is) gives it more meaning.

“Why, Samuel?” Their stand-off hasn’t been broken yet, and Joseph lifts a brow at him. “What’s he giving you?”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“You’re my little brother, and this is my power in here keeping him safe.”

Heat burns the back of Samuel’s neck, and he resists the urge to gnash his teeth together as he bends down to look at Joseph at eye-level. “Do you know,” he begins, his index finger lifted and the rest curled into a loose fist, his hand gesturing slightly, “how weak that’d make you look?” Samuel’s gaze shifts to look out of the corner of his eye, then it returns, his tongue peeking out briefly to wet his lips. “You cuttin’ off a boy _just_ because Monroe wanted his ass?” He sits beside him, his head tilting slightly.

“Do you want to look that easily spooked, brother?”

Joseph doesn’t speak for a moment, but at the same time, he doesn’t turn away. Samuel has a point and they both know it. A gang doesn’t toss members out; it’s the unspoken loyalty between the members that comprise its strength, after all. And on some level, nobody really wants to give Monroe that kind of impression—that he’s some all-wise warrior who’s actually smart enough to break out of here. He was put into prison because of that wrongly accused Japanese man. Nobody has any respect for a guy who was sentenced because of someone who continuously references Star Trek.

“Keep your distance from him,” Joseph finally says, getting to his feet. “We’ll keep him, but he’s not yours.”

“What—” Samuel looks like he’s been slapped in the face, his eyes widening. “—what’re you goin’ on about?”

“You think I don’t see it?” Joseph asks, once more looking at the yard instead of his brother. Samuel’s mind begins to click and whir and the first thing he thinks is that Joseph wants Peter for himself, too. Peter and his smiles. Peter and his loyalty. Peter and his stories about his stupid, stupid family, and the way he smacks his lips and turns his head to the side when he tells a joke he thinks isn’t funny. It makes Samuel’s eyes see red, being betrayed by his own brother.

But that’s not what Joseph’s talking about.

“You can have what you want,” he states. “But what you have with him isn’t good for when he’s let out.”

* * *

Samuel thinks he’s embarrassed. Joseph’s right, and he didn’t even see it himself, trapped as he was in that stupid fantasy world he’s always believing is something he _deserves_. This isn’t about Samuel believing he should have what he wants. It’s about Peter’s love for menthol candy and how that and everything else about him is the most real thing Samuel’s had since a girl he loved in his childhood. Peter is the best part of Samuel’s life right now, and nobody else thinks that about their three month long bitches.

He accepts it, though. He’s not particularly perturbed. Samuel thinks this is what it feels like to find out he’s terminal, because he’s wrapping himself around the disease and holding it in his hands like it’s a precious four-leaf clover, and he doesn’t really care if it kills him.

* * *

The day Peter gets out of solitary confinement, Samuel’s shoes literally slide across the floor to get to him, and he wraps an arm around his shoulder with a smile. “You’ve been promoted,” he says, even as Peter furrows his brows in confusion and looks at him, hair falling over his left eye again. Pure habit has Samuel brushing it back, and if his hand lingers a second too long, neither of them bring it up.

“You’ve impressed Joseph, Peter,” Samuel states, putting as much fancy air as he can in those four words. “What you did with Adam… it was very, very good.”

Peter’s eyes light up, and he’s so floored with glee at being praised that he doesn’t make any effort to hide his grin. “Really?” he asks, and at Samuel’s nod, leans forward slightly as if he’s about to speak of some terrifying conspiracy. “Truthfully, I didn’t do much. It was really all Edgar’s doing.”

Ignoring the fact that Peter somehow knows Edgar’s name, Samuel smiles and nods again, as if this is a genuine secret that nobody else knows, and then he leads him off to another part of the prison.

Lydia’s a doctor, and she’s done most of Samuel’s ink. Though she charges quite the steep price, she’s also got an empathetic ear; it’s safe to say she’s one of Samuel’s favorite people in here. Samuel leads Peter to A-block, where they reach the clinic and (after much patting down from the guards to make sure they aren’t there for ill intentions) meet Lydia face to face. Peter waits with his hands in his pockets as Samuel talks to her, rocking a little on the balls of his feet, but when the man returns, Peter sobers up rather nicely.

“This is the last step,” Samuel says, and then he’s tugging at Peter’s jumpsuit and unbuttoning it to pull the upper part down and show his torso. “After this, Peter, you’ll officially be one of us.”

Peter stares at him for a while, but he doesn’t protest when Lydia takes his wrist and speaks in soothing tones, lowering him onto the bed used for examinations. She wipes his chest with alcohol, and then she takes out a needle that most definitely isn’t used for prescription drugs.

Peter swallows, and Samuel snorts. “You can take it off when you get out of here,” he says around the buzzing of the tattoo needle, but Peter doesn’t say anything in response. His fingers clench and unclench, and he doesn’t move until the word _SULLIVAN_ is written in clear letters over his chest—dark, fresh, permanent.

But Samuel knows it isn’t really permanent, not like it used to be. Peter can take it off when he finds a life again, and a girl, and a family and his brother and his kleptomaniac mom. Samuel, on the other hand; he’ll be here, stuck with a disease trapped in his hands. And he’ll know he never really did anything for it besides tricking some stupid floppy-haired kid to get his name etched into his flesh.

Samuel comforts himself with it, though, because for the rest of Peter’s term, he’s going to have that name on him, hidden beneath his jumpsuit. And he’s his. Peter is _his_.

* * *

Peter’s a dreamy person, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He starts to realize quick and simple that he isn’t Samuel’s anymore.

He initially looks offended when it happens. Samuel brushes him off at the cafeteria, ignores his glances in the yard, and tries not to seek out his cell when they go back into their block. Peter looks betrayed every time he manages a quick peek. Samuel doesn’t like it, but Joseph’s intense stare is what keeps him from trying to soothe Peter and make it better.

To his chagrin, the restlessness he felt when Peter was in solitary confinement comes back. Samuel only paces at night, however, even though his cellmate isn’t very pleased about it. He paces when he knows Peter can’t see him. The knowledge that Peter has Samuel’s name on his chest is a nice thing to remember, though, and when things get particularly bad, that’s what Samuel comforts himself with.

He has a fixation. Samuel has a fixation. And truth be told, he’s not sure how he’s going to survive the last year of his sentence, because Peter’s going to be in the outside world and on parole in four months.

On that note, he isn’t sure how he’ll go on with the rest of his life, either.

* * *

An hour before Peter’s official release, Samuel finally tears away from the protective range of sight of his brother and seeks him out. Peter’s wearing normal clothes, his hair is tied back with a rubber band, and on his way out of the yard Samuel stops him by sliding in front of him like he always used to do, his hand on the chain link fence to keep Peter from moving. The kid doesn’t look phased, but Samuel knows he’s listening.

“Don’t steal any cars,” Samuel says, because Peter may have a brother out there, but Samuel needs to be sure that someone reminds him. That someone is looking out for him while they’re separated. Peter swallows, and then he nods his head, his lips pressed together before he lets out an ‘okay’.

Samuel stares at him a minute longer, and not once does Peter’s gaze tear away. There’s nothing in his eyes that makes him look like he’s hating Samuel for everything he’s ever done—on the contrary, Peter’s eyebrows are arched the slightest bit, and his tongue peeks out to wet the very tips of his lips.

Peter looks like he wants… what Samuel wants.

And it feels like a punch to the gut.

“Samuel—” Peter begins, but Samuel leaves before he can finish.

* * *

The year goes on.

It’s desperately pathetic, because all Samuel has time to do is sit around and think. And all he can think about is Peter. And when you’re trapped in a prison with a disease that revolves around someone who’s in the outside world _forgetting_ about you, things aren’t really so easy to deal with. The prison has never felt more like a prison than in those three-hundred and sixty-five days of agony, and Samuel’s been staring at his wall for so long that he can pick every difference in the greys that exist in it. He feels like he’s turning to stone. It’s a terrible way to live.

When the day finally rolls around, Samuel’s wearing black pants and a shirt he hates—all conformist and regular and so normal he literally wants to puke. What he has of his belongings goes into a pillow case. Joseph is still locked in, but that’s because his crimes are of a higher severity. Samuel says goodbye and Joseph nods his head. That’s really all there is to it.

He deludes himself into thinking Peter would answer the phone if Samuel used his call for him. He deludes himself into this ideal _so_ much that when he leaves the yard, he isn’t sure what to feel about seeing a man with short hair and brown eyes and a collared shirt reading EMT waiting for him in front of a parked taxi cab.

Peter is a paramedic. Samuel stares.

But the taxi driver—a man named Mohinder Suresh who Peter met after his brother became senator, Samuel will learn later—honks his horn and urges Samuel to shuffle forward. Samuel feels numb, all the smoothness that’s associated with him disappearing in lieu of how _normal_ Peter looks, sans his stupid bangs. He looks younger, too, and healthier, like everything that happened in this prison (and everything that happened with Samuel) was scrubbed clean the moment he took his first real shower.

It’s only what’s on the surface, though, Samuel realizes, because when he gets closer, Peter’s entire body straightens up, and his chest expands as he takes in a large inhalation. He perks up involuntarily _just_ because Samuel’s near him, and Samuel understands, because he feels it too.

When they both get into the backseat of the cab, Peter smiles and asks, “You hungry?”

So he takes Samuel out for waffles and he buys him a large strawberry milkshake. Peter pays, because he’s the one here who has a job, and Samuel only has three dollars and a quarter.

* * *

Peter doesn’t ask Samuel if there’s anyone he wants to call. He doesn’t ask if he has family. Samuel has the feeling that Peter knows that all Samuel has is Joseph, and despite the fact that they’re silent as Mohinder  takes them wherever the hell Peter wants, Samuel’s mind is bouncing off the insides of his skull.

Mohinder finally stops in front of an apartment building in a respectable neighborhood, and Samuel moves as if on autopilot, still shocked with the surreal atmosphere and how little power he possesses in it. He grabs his pillowcase and Peter gives Mohinder money, which the man refuses because Peter’s a friend. Peter laughs and Samuel’s gut hurts, so he looks away until he can hear the taxi leaving.

Peter leads Samuel upstairs. The role reversal is strange, but Samuel makes sure to follow.

* * *

“Uh,” Peter says intelligently, when they’re inside the apartment. It’s small and it’s clean, and there’s one wall to the side filled with newspaper clippings. Samuel doesn’t have to ask to know that Peter’s probably had a hand in saving the people in the pictures. He just seems like the kind of man to do something like that. “I had to save a lot for it, but, uh, I got a two bedroom apartment. I mean, you could probably fend for yourself, and I wasn’t sure where you were going, but I owe you for everything you did for me, and I figured you could stay here until you could get back on your feet—”

Peter is ruffling his fingers through his hair like Samuel remembers him doing, and the whole thing is so out of this world that there’s not really a lot that Samuel can say in response. There’s a refrigerator and a kitchen and they’re standing on top of a carpet. There’s a stupid family photo hanging on the wall, and Samuel sees Peter’s brother and mother for the first time, trying to fit all of the anecdotes he has of them to their faces. There’s a kitchen table with four chairs. The furniture matches. It’s _clean_.

“—and I guess what I’m trying to say,” Peter interjects into Samuel’s thoughts, clearing his throat, “is that… are you interested?” He pauses. “Samuel?”

Samuel doesn’t remember dropping the pillowcase and crossing the threshold to where Peter stands, nor does he remember cupping his face with his hands and pushing him back against a blank space in the wall of newspaper clippings.

“ _Samuel_ ,” Peter breathes, voice shaking with—worry? Relief?—something. Maybe he’s just saying it because he wants to. Because he wants Samuel. And then all thoughts of milkshakes and waffles and everything in between disappear from his head, because they’re stumbling down the hall and into a bedroom with matching sheets and another one of those stupid family photos on Peter’s bedside table.

He pulls Peter’s shirt over his head and… stops. The entire world stops spinning.

All Samuel sees is the tattoo.

“No one else had one,” Peter whispers, fingers curling into the front of Samuel’s shirt, his face solemn. The expression, the straight line of his lips, the seriousness in his eyes; Peter looks sacred, like he’s about to speak the words that are the reasons people have religion. “I _looked_ , Samuel, and no one else had this tattoo. And I knew. I knew it was just for me.”

“Aye.” It’s all Samuel can say, his throat thick and his chest clenching, his heart going into palpitations as the cancer swallows him whole. And Peter smiles, and he nods, and he whispers an ‘I knew it’, both for his sake and Samuel’s, because that’s how they work, now. In that moment, the want expands to monstrous sizes; it’s a rapid process that’s catalyzed by the fact that they’re alone. That this is real. That Peter came to meet him and saved to get an apartment, and kept Samuel’s name on his chest. Samuel’s throat goes dry because he wants more than to comb his fingers through Peter’s hair, more than to keep Peter safe from anything and everything of the outside world.

Samuel wants to taste. He wants to touch. So he does.

* * *

He’s never actually touched another man, but his fingers make Peter come all the same, his mouth open and his fingers digging into the sheets as he shivers as if from the cold. He knows this isn’t the case, though, because they’re pressed so tight hardly anything can get between them, and the heat is so overwhelming that Samuel really just isn’t sure how to deal with anything anymore.

“Nice blanket,” Samuel murmurs, while Peter pants and gasps and aches for air.

“I like it,” Peter murmurs back, his eyes still closed and his head tipped back. Sweat glistens on his throat and on his chest, and for the shortest span of time it makes his tattoo look fresh and wet. There’s a feeling of panic that rises up Samuel’s chest at the sight of it, as if the tattoo could possibly be erased, and in the silence he brushes the tips of his fingers over just to make sure. Peter’s skin is raised the smallest height where the letters are, and he shivers at the feel of Samuel’s hand.

He reaches out with curled fingers, looking for Samuel in a manner that’s almost childlike. His hands move in scrabbly, lazy motions, and he tugs him and kisses him like anything but a child; in the haze of their lips pressed together, Peter makes Samuel lie on his back. He straddles him then, and in one slow, slick motion he sinks down on top of him, and it’s such a lovely sensation that Samuel’s eyes quite literally begin to sting. Words get caught up in his throat; smoothness is erased in favor of his pupils blown and his mouth agape as he looks at the ceiling. Samuel’s fingers curl around Peter’s hips, and Peter shivers and bites on his lower lip as he feels goosebumps raise the inches of his flesh.

“You’re here,” Peter whispers, finally, looking down with a smile that looks a lot like the nervous one he’d given the first day they’d met. “You’re _really_ here.” Peter’s head tilts back, and he gives an experimental roll of his hips as a noise gets choked up his throat. “Fuck, Samuel—you’re _here_.”

“I don’t,” Samuel begins, his thumbs drawing circles on Peter’s flesh, his chest quivering at how good everything feels, “really know how to do this.” Peter’s hands fall over Samuel’s pectoral muscles, and he lifts himself up before slamming back down like he’ll never get enough of the other man inside of him. Samuel’s entire body wracks in shudders, and Peter gasps as he continues to move. “Peter—”

“Don’t care,” Peter says in response—even after understanding that Samuel isn’t just talking about the sex, but about life itself—his voice bordering the edges of insanity as he rocks faster. “So _thick_ —”

The breathless exclamation makes whatever concern that’d been in Samuel’s head get wiped away, and with a noise from Samuel that sounds a little like a growl, his hips finally snap up to meet Peter’s erratic movements. The effect is immediate: Peter’s hands scramble, and his moan sounds wild and feral between them, mouth tilting a little to his left as he keeps his lips apart. His cheeks are flushed; they’re dyed red in the tremble of his lips as Samuel moves up and up and up again. All the while, the tattoo is dark on Peter’s pale skin, and Samuel genuinely _cannot_ think much of it.

“Were you thinking about me, Peter?” Samuel breathes out, right as Peter’s thighs begin to tremble where they remain parted for him. “Were you thinking about me while I was in there?”

“Yeah,” Peter whimpers, his voice cracking a little towards the end and the word stammering in the beginning. “ _Samuel_.”

In the haze of pulling himself up and digging a hand in Peter’s scalp, Samuel thinks of Peter standing in an empty apartment room and planning everything perfectly. He pushes his mouth against the other man’s and he sees him picking furniture, saving lives, wishing and wanting and waiting for Samuel to come home. He imagines him obsessing over this moment as much as Samuel has—imagines him _imagining_. Their lips mesh and Peter’s skin bruises, and around a whine in Peter’s mouth that comes out high and needy and every definition of perfect Samuel knows, Samuel moves in him like Peter’s all he needs to breathe.

Peter’s legs shake and a shout punctuates him coming—for the second time, to both their surprise—and among everything else, all Samuel can see and focus on is a drop of come in the corner of his last name’s last letter. It’s such a lovely sight that Samuel is right there after him, pressing Peter against his body as he kisses him and snaps his hips up off the mattress.

They spill and they tumble and Samuel rolls them over so he can kiss Peter again, who tastes both like Samuel and those stupid menthol candies he loves so much. Light slots through the windows, bathed in orange to signify sunset, and they light up the pale color of Peter’s skin.

Before they both fall asleep, Samuel thinks he might’ve told Peter he was beautiful.

* * *

“You don’t have to make it so tight.”

“Of _course_ I have to make it tight. You’re supposed to look professional.”

“Feels like a noose around my neck.”

“If you keep whining, it may as well be.”

Samuel winces as Peter tugs hard on the knot of his tie, and one glance at the mirror has his face erupting into a cringe. He’s wearing grey, white, and a tie that’s blue because Peter says red makes him think of Nathan. “I look like a _schoolboy_ ,” he mutters, right as Peter straightens his attire and reaches for his blazer.

“You look… dignified.”

“I look like a man I’d rob.”

Peter gives him a significant look, and Samuel lifts a brow like he’s not entirely certain whether Peter really wants to question him. In the end, Peter lets out a sigh, and Samuel pushes his arms through the sleeves and tugs on the jacket until it fits him the way it’s supposed to. He hasn’t worn one of these since he was a boy. He wonders if he looks as awkward as he feels.

“You only have to look like this for the pitch. After your landscaping business works out, you can wear your weird eyeliner and your weird magician clothes as much as you want.” Peter’s supposed to be comforting, but he’s smiling teasingly as he speaks. Samuel snorts and fixes his collar, but the man in the mirror still looks like a stranger. He thinks it’s the distinctive lack of orange. Peter just presses a kiss to the curve of his neck, right over the crisp edge of a white collar, and then wraps his arms around his waist and watches.

Samuel’s voice comes out soft. “I don’t know how to do this.” All his adult life he’s been trapped in prison, not having to worry about finding decent work or how to tie a double Windsor. Samuel used to think he’d be there forever, and to suddenly be given a chance at a new life and a new beginning isn’t as easy as it seemed in his dreams. They’re quiet as they stand there, and Samuel can’t recognize himself, because where Peter looks like he belongs, Samuel looks like he’s trying far too hard. He’s not sure how to begin again; not sure whether he should start with his left or his right foot moving forward first. And he doesn’t think he likes reality as much as he should.

He’s interrupted in his thoughts by the feel of Peter’s fingers, the tip of his index very gently tracing a pattern on the fabric over his stomach. In perfect contrast, Peter’s voice comes out confident: “I do.”

Heat radiating where Peter’s finger touched, Samuel knows he wrote the name _PETRELLI_ , real and simple and more permanent than any ink.

* * *

When Joseph Sullivan finds out he has visitors, he isn’t surprised to see Samuel on the other side.

What he’s surprised to see is the floppy haired kid beside him.

And Joseph, for all his attempts at realism, feels a smile curve onto his lips.

Samuel and Peter tell him about home.


End file.
